


woke up and chose poet violence

by fricklefracklefloof



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Rivalry, The Eye, The Lonely - Freeform, Trauma, and we get commercial breaks from wtgfs, basically martin and arun duke it out to see who's the better poet, crack kinda, definitely very prominent though, i definitely take some liberties, i tagged this as jonmartin and wtgfs but they're not like the MAIN main focus, it was supposed to be funny and not serious but then it got sad, jon and martin are super gross, mediocre poetry, minor trauma flashbacks, or at least i try to make it, set between mag191-192, the spiral if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fricklefracklefloof/pseuds/fricklefracklefloof
Summary: In an epic poetry showdown, Martin and Arun determine which writer is the best in the cult. Because these tunnels aren't big enough for TWO gay poets.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Arun, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	woke up and chose poet violence

“You know, maybe I could get used to this.” Jon’s tone was light as it rang through the tunnels, echoing alongside the sound of his and Martin’s footsteps. “Cults don’t seem like they’re  _ that  _ bad.” Like he’d be staying here for long.

Martin snorted. “You just say that ‘cause you’re not the one being worshipped for once.”

“Excuse you. I’m always being worshipped. I’m favored by the Eye, after all.” They laughed, the sound almost foreign as it bounced back at them. Martin knew the people here probably thought he and Jon were insane, two messes of men who had the same immunity as the prophets but not the same holiness. Or so they thought.

“Anyways, the people here seem… nice,” Martin said hesitantly. “As… nice as traumatized cult members can get, I suppose.”

“Uh huh. Maybe some of them.”

“Just give them time; maybe they’ll come around? I’d still like to talk to Celia some more.” 

“I think Laverne hates me already,” Jon admitted.

“She’s a therapist. I think it’s her job  _ not _ to judge you.”

“True.”

It was nice to be around other people again, Martin thought. He couldn’t have been more grateful to have Jon by his side during all this, but sometimes the selfish lonely part of him felt like they were the only people in the world who were still alive and not dying of fear. Being down here was the closest thing to being in the Archives again, literally and figuratively. Though...

“Did you get to meet Arun yet?” they asked at the same time.

“Ah.”

“What did you think of him?” Martin asked.

“He’s, ah… interesting.”

“Yes. Interesting.” That was one word to describe him.

There was a sly grin tugging at Jon’s lips. “I hear he’s a poet.”

“He’s an  _ awful  _ poet,” Martin grumbled.

“Oh? Have you seen any of his work yet?”

“Well, no, but—” Martin struggled for the right word. “He’s—he’s  _ rude!” _

“And that makes him a bad poet?”

“Yes! He said that poets speak the truth. That poems are… truthful!” Martin did not spend all those countless lonely nights writing fantastical poems about kissing Jon on the lips to be told that poets spoke the  _ truth. _

“They’re not?”

“No! Well, some of them are. But they don’t have to be. You can tell  _ lies  _ with poems, too.” Martin liked lies. Especially the self-indulgent kind.

Maybe that was a little unhealthy.

“Alright, then.”

\---

“Can I join you guys?” Martin asked, creeping hesitantly into the sparsely furnished room where the cult took their meals. Arun and Celia looked up at him from a round table with several chairs that looked sort of comfortable. There was a pile of tins dumped in the middle, inviting anyone to take whatever random canned thing they’d like.

“Yeah, of course. Would you like a tin?” Celia asked.

God, a “tin”. The language was so vague because no one ever knew what the fuck they were eating. Let’s pop open a tin today! Will it be irritatingly mediocre or absolutely disgusting? Who knows!

“Sure,” Martin said, pulling up a chair next to them. He wasn’t even particularly hungry, he just wanted something to do. Or maybe he just wanted to torture himself. But it felt nice to sit, at least.

Celia grabbed a random tin from the pile and handed it to Martin. He tested it between his hands for a moment, as if he could somehow guess what was inside. Whatever it was made a weird liquid noise. Before he could lose his nerve, Martin grabbed a can opener and squeezed his eyes shut, screwing it open.

He smelled it before he saw it. Martin wanted to gag the second the sickeningly sweet scent hit his nose. Panic gripped his chest, and for a moment he was back in his flat, back pressed up against the door, listening for worms and wondering if anyone even remembered he was alive.

“Ooh, canned peaches! I love those!” Arun exclaimed, as if Martin had just won something in the mystery tin lottery. 

_ Of course you do.  _ “You can… you can have them if you want,” Martin mumbled, sliding the tin over to him.

“You’re not going to eat them? It’s not good to waste food, Martin.”

_ No one here even has to eat anyway.  _ “I’m allergic,” Martin lied, pushing out of his chair. He’d lost whatever hint of an appetite he might have had. Still, he reached for another tin on his way out. Maybe Jon would like something. Probably would be good if he at least ate. Martin didn’t like how shaky he’d been lately.

“You really don’t take any of this seriously, do you.” Arun’s accusation made Martin stop by the door. He turned.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what’s going on with your tape recorders and stuff, but you  _ know _ you’re safe here. You don’t care. Not like the rest of us. You could at least try to understand that some of us worry we’re not going to live to see another day.”

Christ, all he did was decide not to eat a can of peaches. “First of all, no one’s allowed the luxury of dying here. Second, days don’t exist and time isn’t even real anymore. Third, I  _ do  _ understand, very much so, and it’s none of your business what I do with my life.”

“I don’t like when people say that. It deflects from the problems they should be addressing.”

Arun was sort of right on that front, but Martin still hated him. “Well, too bad.”

“I’m not sure if you even like the  _ Prophets.  _ You and Jon, you’re always making fun of them.”

“Are you kidding me? Melanie and Georgie are my  _ friends. _ ”

“I don’t think you’re showing them the proper respect.”

“Oh, yeah?” Martin snapped. “Well,  _ excuse me  _ for not getting down on my knees and writing groveling  _ hymns  _ about them.”

Celia’s brows were pressed together in concern. “Guys…”

“My hymns are a work of hope,” Arun protested. “They bring to light the things that keep our flock going. They make people happy, and they are  _ absolutely  _ necessary.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure Melanie and Georgie  _ love  _ hearing that they’re the ‘saviors of the world’, and all that.”

“Well, could you write something better about them?” Arun stabbed his fork into the freshly opened can of peaches with a squelch that made Martin want to grimace. But the message was clear: this was a challenge.

Martin straightened his back in a way that he hoped made himself look taller than he already was. “I bet I could.”

“You’re on.”

Celia’s face brightened. “Oh, is this a competition?”

Well, when you put it that way… “I suppose it is.”

“A hymn competition,” Arun declared.

“A  _ poetry  _ competition,” Martin corrected. Nothing, not even the prospect of showing Arun up, would ever convince Martin to write a fucking  _ hymn _ .

“Did I hear we’re having a poetry competition?” Georgie asked, poking her head through the doorway. “Sounds like fun.”

Martin didn’t miss the way that Arun’s confidence dissipated into trembling respect in front of Georgie. He stifled a laugh. “Yes, Arun and I are going to see who’s the better poet.”

“Oh, that’s right, you write poetry, too, Martin!” Georgie recalled. “I think Jon mentioned it once. I’d love to see what you could do.”

Martin hated how his face was predictably heating just then, but he tried to keep his cool. “Yes, well, I was thinking we could present our poems to the others tomo—next, uh, mealtime? Whenever you do hymns, or whatever?”

“Sounds good. And the Prophets can decide which is best. If that’s—alright with you?” Arun asked, looking at Georgie hopefully.

“Yes, I suppose we can listen,” Georgie agreed, shooting Martin a knowing grin.

“Right. Well, if that’s settled, then I’m off to go write a poem about my friends.”

\---

“Are you sure a competition is a good idea? Maybe I shouldn’t have let them do this,” Georgie said regretfully, once she and Melanie were out of earshot of the rest of the cult. There were plenty of cameras surrounding the bench where the two of them sat, but they paid them no mind.

“It’ll be  _ fine,  _ hon,” Melanie sighed. “You said so yourself. It’s a great way to pass the time, and Martin and Jon need to get to know the others better anyway. I’m looking forward to it, personally. Can’t wait to see Arun get what’s coming for him.” She smirked.

“Melanie,” Georgie scolded, but playfully. Her smile gave it away, leaking into her voice. She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But I could tell this was founded on… rivalry. What if it just makes things worse? If this makes the group fall apart…”

“I mean, okay. Maybe agreeing to decide the winner wasn’t the best idea. But what’s the worst thing that’s gonna happen? People start to hate Martin because his poems suck? Then we just kick him out.” She smacked her cane into her hand threateningly.

Georgie winced. “You and I both know we don’t want to do that.”

“They’re not going to be here for long. Let’s just enjoy this while we have it.” Melanie squeezed her hand, resting her head on Georgie’s shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe Arun and Martin will come out with some sort of  _ poetic bond. _ ” She snickered.

“That’d be nice,” Georgie said wistfully. “I actually think they might have a lot more in common than they think.”

“Don’t insult Martin like that.”

\---

So for the first time, Martin had an audience.

Well, as much of an audience as this meager cult could offer. Still, Martin could see most of the main group crowded around the round table eager for some kind of entertainment. Even Jon had dragged himself out of their room to smile wearily at him, chin resting on his hands.

Looking back, maybe this wasn’t the most well thought-out idea. Martin had always been a little self-conscious of his poetry. But fuck it, this was the apocalypse, and he needed to put Arun in his place. 

In… in a moment, though. He let Arun go first.

“Alright, then,” Arun said, standing up in front of everyone like the stuck-up little prick he was. “This is called ‘A Light in the Dark’.”

That was just about the cheesiest thing Martin had ever heard. Fitting.

It was a hymn, of course. Martin didn’t think Arun was capable of writing poems that  _ weren’t  _ hymns. He could tell because the language was disgustingly holy and had a rhythm that felt a little like a song. A couple of the cult members were getting really into it. Celia tapped her fingers on the table to the beat.

Arun rambled about Melanie and Georgie saving him from some horrible dark place and used some shitty metaphor about candles, something about the solidarity of lighting other candles and not losing the flame or whatever. For a moment Georgie almost looked touched in the beginning, but her smile turned from genuinely heartwarmed to respectfully strained when he started using the word “savior”.

Arun was met with polite clapping once he finished, though Melanie looked like she wanted to leave and Georgie was very quiet with her “thank you”. Jon had that rare look on his face where he was  _ really  _ trying to suppress one of his louder laughs. Because everyone else was doing it, Martin reluctantly put his hands together for Arun.

“Right, then,” Arun said as he sat back down next to Laverne. “Martin, I believe it’s your turn?” His tone was polite, but Martin still caught a mischievous glint in his gaze.

Shit. Right. “Oh. Yes.” Reluctantly, but because Arun did it and he didn’t want to be upstaged, Martin pushed out of his chair to stand where everyone could see, sheet of lined paper clutched tightly between his hands.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “This is called ‘Friends’, by Martin Blackwood.”

Martin had called Melanie and Georgie his friends, but really, he didn’t know them that well at all. He was grateful to be on better terms with Melanie since they reintroduced themselves to each other, but he still wouldn’t call them close. It was his fault for distancing himself from everyone at the Institute, after all. Hell, when he’d first met Georgie, they’d immediately argued and then Martin had disappeared on her. But with the apocalypse and everything happening they’d had to work side by side, put trust in one another. Melanie and Georgie were familiar, and so here, they were friends.

Strange, what all that does to you.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise when Martin had sat down earlier and couldn’t think of a word to say about the two of them. It wasn’t like he didn’t have opinions about Melanie and Georgie, but… well. He really didn’t want to anger either of them.

Jon helped, though, where he could. He had just rested his head on Martin’s shoulder and given him input as he wrote and they sat like that until the poem was finished.

So Martin wrote Melanie and Georgie just as they were: as people. He’d originally wanted to write about what he admired about them, but considering what the cult wrote about them already he didn’t want to come off as… weird. 

He wrote about two women who walked through the domains with no fear, not because they were blessed or because they were powerful, but just out of chance. 

He wrote about a woman with a cat. Who cared deeply about her friends, her people, but knew when to keep her distance when she needed to.

He wrote about a woman who’d been places, been plenty of different things. Who didn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done, even if it meant killing her. 

Martin left certain details out, of course, but he wrote his friends how he knew them. It was awkward, and sort of boring if he was being honest, but he received applause anyways, even though Arun’s grin was smug and Celia looked disappointed. Georgie was smiling, though, and Jon looked proud.

“I believe that’s it, then,” Arun announced once Martin sat back down. He didn’t even hesitate to turn to address Georgie and Melanie. “So, Prophets. Who do you believe is the better writer?”

Georgie winced. “Ah, well…”

“It’s okay if you need more time,” Martin reassured them. He hadn’t even realized how uncomfortable a position they were putting them in.

“No, no, it’s fine, really…”

“Martin,” Melanie said definitively.

Arun’s face fell, and Martin felt a rush of pride as he tried to suppress an extremely smug smile. Validation!

“O-oh, I see—Georgie, you agree?” Arun sputtered.

Georgie looked down. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Arun, it’s nothing personal, but we’ve said in the past that we’re not comfortable being called ‘saviors’. And, well… I just liked Martin’s poem more,” Melanie explained.

“Yours was, um… very interesting, Arun! Thank you both,” Georgie said.

“O-of course, thank you, Prophets, for attending,” Arun stammered. A few of the other cult members nodded reluctantly.

“Sure. Well. If that’s all, I’m sorry to have to leave so abruptly, but Georgie and I have… some other things to get to,” Melanie said, grabbing her cane as she stood, Georgie trailing somewhat guiltily behind her.

“Thanks again,” Martin called after them. This was a lot more awkward then he had meant for it to be.

“Well,” Arun said to Martin, once Melanie and Georgie were out of earshot, “congratulations on… gaining the favor of the Prophets.”

“Thanks. You did well, too,” Martin responded, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. He ignored Jon’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“Seems like he was a bit of a favorite already,” someone on the other end of the table muttered.

Martin’s gaze shot over to her, the woman who’d refused to give her name to anyone in the cult. “I beg your pardon?”

The unnamed woman huffed. “I’m just saying, it seems like the odds were plenty in your favor, being special friends with the Prophets and all.”

“I— _ special friends? _ ” Martin sputtered. He’d barely had a full conversation with either Melanie or Georgie before meeting them in the tunnels. “I just knew them before the—this!”

“But you have similar powers,” Arun pointed out. “Clearly you have a… bond.”

“We do  _ not! _ ” Martin insisted. “Melanie and I were coworkers. That’s all. Arun, you clearly have talent, but it seems like my poetry won for today.”

Arun’s eyes glinted. “Prove it. One more time.”

Martin scoffed. “Once wasn’t enough for you?”

“This time, the Prophets will not decide. We’ll… take a vote.”

“I’d prefer that,” the unnamed woman agreed, and the others nodded along with her. So they didn’t trust Melanie and Georgie on this one. Interesting.

Martin sighed. “Fine. I’ll participate in another round, on one condition.”

“What.”

“No writing about the Prophets.”

\---

“They’re having  _ another one?” _

“Apparently so. But we don’t necessarily have to be at this one. I hear they’re not actually writing about us, for once.”

Melanie scoffed. “I didn’t think Arun was capable of writing anything else.”

“I’m actually pretty interested in seeing what he’s gonna come up with.” Georgie smiled.

“I’m not.”

“We don’t have to go. Or, do you think we should?”

Melanie sighed. “I don’t want them to think that we don’t  _ like  _ them. I… still feel bad about how we left earlier. I just could  _ not  _ stand to be in that room any longer, or I swear I was going to hit someone.”

Leaving the room so she could calm down. It was the most simple exercise, really, but Georgie appreciated how far Melanie had come since leaving the Institute. A few months ago she might have hurt someone’s feelings. 

“Me too.” Georgie squeezed her hand. “Thank you for not doing so.”

“Whatever.”

“So. Are we attending Martin and Arun’s final poetry showdown, or no?”

“Is it going to be final? Because at this point, I’m not quite sure how much they’re going to keep going at it.”

“True. I don’t know. I hope so, I’m getting a little tired of all this rivalry nonsense.”

“Me too.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of drones whirring overhead. Funny how this was the only place where they could find privacy, where eyes were everywhere.

Melanie sighed. “You know what, fine. We can attend one last time. I would rather like to listen to either of them lose.”

“Just this last time, then.”

“Yes. Dear god, I hope this is the last one. If this drags on any longer I think we might have to shut it down.”

\---   
  


Martin was considerably more confident this time around.

For one, he was finally allowed to write about whatever he wanted. Martin took inspiration from all kinds of things in his life when it came to poetry, but this one was much more personal. The yearning ones were always the really good ones. So he of course volunteered to go first this time around.

Pretty much the entire cult had gathered where everyone took their meals, the table crowded almost comically with bodies to watch Arun and Martin duke it out poetically. A couple people stood or sat on the ground, including Jon, who sat in the most unconventional position with his side against the wall, gazing proudly at Martin in a way that made his heart flutter.

Which was good, because Martin’s poem was about him.

Martin had written about Jon before, of course he had. His first had been one of his most humiliating works yet, some yearning nonsense scribbled on spare paper shortly after Jon had let him sleep in the archives all those months ago after the Prentiss incident. (He’d immediately crumpled it up and thrown it away, too ashamed to even look at it or let alone allow the possibility of having someone else see it.) He’d written another on a particularly lonely night while Jon had still been comatose, something so desperate and miserable at the time that Martin had even considered reading it aloud to him in some pathetic attempt to wake him up or something. Then another while they’d been living in the safehouse, something short and sweet slipped between the pages of Jon’s book to pick him up.

He’d written this one sitting wrapped up in a blanket with Jon’s arms around him, covering the page with one hand so he couldn’t see. They’d said nothing the whole time, leaving Martin’s thoughts alone with nothing but Jon’s sleepy eyes looking back at him and his pen scratching against the paper. 

The poem was raw and unedited. He didn’t try to make it flowery, didn’t even give it a rhyme scheme or any fancy words he thought would look nice. Martin had just let his hand move almost on its own, letting Jon’s presence be his sole inspiration, and he didn’t stop writing until he was completely done. 

He wrote of comfort amidst a world of discomfort. Of a hand in his promising protection, a vow that at least no harm would befall him. Martin was purposely vague about some elements, of course, but he hoped Jon got the message.

It seemed he did. When Martin finished, Jon looked horribly embarrassed, but he was clapping louder than anyone else. Martin joined him at his spot on the floor and they embraced, clumsily.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jon whispered.

“‘Course, love,” Martin murmured.

He didn’t want to be sappy, but to be honest, that might have been Martin’s best work. It would be downright homophobic for him  _ not  _ to win.

Martin thought he had glimpsed the barest flicker of endearment across Arun’s gaze when he’d presented his poem, but the cult member didn’t say anything as he stood up to present his work next. So not even he could resist Martin and Jon’s charm.

Arun looked considerably less confident than before. Maybe he was self-conscious about writing something that wasn’t about Melanie and Georgie for once? Martin tried to tamp down the pang of empathy that shot through him when he noticed Arun’s hands shaking as he clutched his paper. He could definitely relate, but that didn’t mean he liked him.

“This is called, um… ‘People’,” he mumbled. “By me. Arun.”

Martin had expected some kind of poem about the cult, or maybe some speculations about people and how they worked, but what followed wasn’t that at all.

Arun wrote about isolation: not the situational kind, but the kind you impose upon yourself, because you feel like you have to. He wrote about the crippling fear of others, the fear that they were going to see you, to hurt you, to swallow you whole if you came too close. The people Arun depicted felt exaggerated, more like monsters: tempting to want to talk to at first, but terrifying once you ventured outside the comfort of your home and immediately had regrets.

Arun’s words were aching, terrified; painting the picture of a home that was just barely safe from the presence of others, but stood cold, empty, dreadfully quiet. Martin could just feel the spiraling fear from his almost contradictory lines.  _ Should I go out, or stay in another day?  _ He pictured cold afternoons spent by the window, longing gazes through the curtains at the people whose actions he couldn’t predict. That woman outside looked nice, for sure, and he needed to go out eventually to get groceries, essentials. But now that she’d smiled he could have sworn he saw long teeth between her lips that could tear through his flesh, and he was sure everyone would hate the outfit he had on today, and actually it was better sitting here at home anyways. Home was familiar, and he knew that at least made it safe.

It was of course about the domain Arun must have lived in before being saved by Melanie and Georgie. A painful blend of the Lonely, the Eye, and the Spiral, too; Martin was horrified to find himself getting carried away by the Lonely himself with Arun’s words.  _ It can’t be that bad,  _ a comforting voice crooned in the back of his head.  _ That almost sounds nice. _

He felt numb when Arun finished. It was polite to clap, he knew, and almost robotically he felt his hands moving together. Arun looked shaken, and a sick part of Martin practically enjoyed it.

Jon seemed to feel the same way, because by his side Martin heard him murmur, “That was wonderful.” Not in a complimentary way, but in that  _ grateful  _ way that made Martin’s stomach churn. He looked more conscious than he’d ever been since they’d entered the tunnels. Jon’s eyes were shining, drinking it all in, and with a pang Martin realized Arun might have accidentally made some poetic version of a statement.

“Right, then,” Arun said softly as he sat back down. “So… whose was better?”

“You win,” Martin blurted.

Arun’s eyes were wide. “I—what?”

“You win. I forfeit. I—I have to go,” Martin stammered, starting for the door. He heard Jon shuffling after him, and some confused murmuring between the other cult members, but he didn’t look back.

\---

“Why didn’t you tell me he was from a Lonely domain?” Martin hissed, trying to keep his voice down, but the sound echoed painfully through the tunnels.

“I didn’t think it was relevant?” Georgie said. “No one here is obligated to share their story. We all have our secrets. I’m not going to share anything that our members aren’t comfortable with others knowing.”

“Fine, fine,” Martin sighed. It wasn’t like she could have known anyways.

“And with Arun specifically… well, he in particular was… difficult.” Georgie’s eyes were sad, almost the way a concerned parent would look, mournful for a child who could have had better. “We’d almost left him behind. Melanie and I had thought a domain like this would be easy, considering it was just people locking themselves away, but Arun must have thought we were there to kill him. He practically fought us.

“When we were finally able to drag him out he hid from us for days. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He thought we were  _ monsters.  _ One moment he’d be okay, almost a nice person to talk to, but the second we got too close he’d freak out.”

“That sounds… awful.”

Georgie nodded. “It was. With a couple of the other members, we at least  _ knew  _ them, and of course anyone would be wary around a bunch of random strangers, but Arun… he was the hardest to come around. Melanie had thought there wasn’t any hope for him, but when he finally got used to people again… Well. It was strange.”

“How so?”

Georgie looked uncomfortable. “Well… let’s just say I don’t think he really… remembered what real people were like? Once he’d realized that Melanie and I were okay he just  _ latched  _ onto us. He must have thought we were the nicest people in the world for not eating him alive. He was one of the first people to make this less of a group and more of… well, a cult.”

Ah. That definitely sounded more like the Arun Martin knew.

“He’s still a little weird about touch sometimes, and, well, you’ve seen how he reacts to strangers. Arun’s—great, and I’m  _ so  _ proud of how far he’s come, but Christ, can he be insufferable sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Martin said softly. But now he knew Arun had a reason for being that way, and Martin couldn’t help but find himself relating to the guy in an awful way. 

He almost felt… guilty, with the knowledge that Arun had come touched by the Lonely. Somehow he felt responsible. He wasn’t an avatar of that domain—who knew who that was—but still he’d practically taken  _ pleasure  _ in Arun’s fear of it. Martin hated it, but deep down he knew he was sustained by people just like Arun, and now here he was, with lasting effects from it too.

Arun was awful. Martin hated him, hated relating to him, hated feeling bad for him, but… man. He needed to talk to him.

\---

Martin found Arun alone in an empty room.

“Hey,” he greeted softly. Arun looked up from where he was sitting on a cot, scribbling in a notebook on his lap.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Not particularly rude, but Martin could just barely feel the sting.

“Can-can I…” Martin looked about the room, then shut the door behind him. “I wanted to say, um… I’m sorry. For leaving like that earlier.”

“S’fine.” Arun shrugged. “I’d assumed you’d just realized, then.”

“Realized what?”

“That I was the better poet.”

Martin felt irritation flare up inside him just then, but he tried to tamp it down for Arun’s sake. “Well, no. That’s not why I left. Your poem just… hit a little close to home, I guess.”

“I could tell. You and Jon looked pretty weird back there.”

Martin tried not to think about what “weird” meant to Arun, and hoped it was more “odd and out of place” than “you thought my trauma was delicious and I’m seriously terrified of you right now”.

“I… yes. Well. I just… didn’t know you came from a Lonely domain.”

“Yes. Did you? Because I thought you, well, being so  _ powerful  _ and all…”

Martin resisted the urge to slap him right then and there. “No. Well, yes. You could say that. I was also… touched. And I know how it feels. To not want to be around people anymore, because it’s exhausting, and it doesn’t feel worth it.”

“...Yeah.” For the first time, Arun seemed to look at him differently. “You do get it.”

He did.

“It’s still hard to get out of bed sometimes. I… I know that people aren’t a threat anymore, I  _ know  _ they aren’t, but still there’s that possibility… what if they are? What if I’ll regret seeing people after all? What if it doesn’t get better? Does it get better?”

Martin didn't know what to say. He thought that it did, after Jon saved him, but again… some days. And considering that Arun might have just given a statement, well… who knows what might show up in his dreams.

“I think… it does. And it has, hasn’t it? You’re here with people now, and it was worth it, after all. It just takes a while. I don’t think it’ll ever be the same for us.”

“I guess you’re right.”

They were silent for a moment.

“So, did I write a better poem or not?”

“Definitely not.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

**Author's Note:**

> https://jcbookworm.tumblr.com/post/640937422422786048/martin-and-arun-in-the-newest-episode-like  
> thank you to my friends venla and mikko for beta reading this! love you guys!  
> talk to me on tumblr and instagram @fricklefracklefloof :)


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